


To Thaw the Frost of Years

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: A lot of comfort, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Comfort, Gen, Lewis Summer Challenge 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All lives are better for some warmth . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge 2014.
> 
> It takes place in a world inhabited by humans and vampires, and is set in 2011.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to Divingforstones and Lindenharp, who between them have offered me support, encouragement, first class beta-ing and several very useful suggestions. As ever, all muddles and misplaced punctuation are mine and mine alone.

_Transcript of an excerpt from Simon Schama’s “A Brief History of British Vampires,” first broadcast on BBC Radio 4 on 18th May, 2011._

“The Human-Vampire Accord became law in the UK in 1920, and was swiftly adopted throughout Europe and then, over the next ten years, by the overwhelming majority of nations around the world. The Accord was arguably the only truly good thing to come out of the Great War, that blood-soaked testimony to the enduring stupidity of the human species. Vampires from all involved countries, but especially Germany, Britain, Russia, and Turkey, worked tirelessly (as only vampires could) to bring the carnage to a halt before the whole of Europe was razed. 

“You might wonder at their motives: why would they care about the fate of a species that at best viewed them with suspicion, and at worst had systematically hunted and persecuted them over millennia? Why weren’t they just roaming the battlefields of northern France and Belgium and beyond, feasting on the easy pickings? Well, their motives were complex, unquestionably, and concerned their wish to preserve art and buildings as much as human life. They grieved bitterly over the destruction of these historical and cultural artefacts; artefacts that they had known and loved for centuries, and in many cases had played a role in creating. No matter. They pitched their considerable collective strength, intelligence and diplomatic skills against the powers that seemed determined to battle until every last human was butchered or subjugated—and eventually they prevailed.

“Of course, that work—as with much vampire activity at that time—was carried out quietly, secretively, behind the closed and bolted doors of country houses and mansions and chateaux across Europe. The majority of the British human population therefore had no inkling of the role their feared neighbours had played in securing their freedom. Ironic really, when you consider the lurid, anti-vampire propaganda common in the early 1900s that suggested that it was only a matter of time before humanity became the unwilling subjects or even slaves of the minority vampire population. When, just before Christmas in 1918, the British government issued a statement formally thanking the Vampire Congress for its pivotal role in bringing peace to Europe, there was an upwelling of pro-vampire sentiment in Britain, and a popular wish for better human-vampire relations. Human and vampire scientists began to cooperate on research projects. Orchestras and choirs and other cultural groups also began to collaborate and integrate. For a short time across the summer and autumn of 1919, it even became fashionable amongst the silly, rich humans of London and Paris and Berlin to imitate their mysterious, newly-acquired friends: wearing sharp little false teeth carved from ivory, and drinking disgustingly viscous, crimson-hued cocktails. 

“This gratitude and curiosity of course sat uneasily with the knowledge that however cultured and intelligent and peace-bringing vampires might be, they were still feeding on something. Someone. But then to the astonishment of the UK human population, in early 1920 the Human-Vampire Accord was published and signed by the human Prime Minister—David Lloyd George—and the Master of the Vampire Congress at the time—Letitia Fairfield. 

“It was a long and complicated document, outlining plans for better integration of all aspects of human and vampire societies. But the movingly simple, honourable heart of the Accord was a covenant, a promise: that from the 11th November 1920—exactly two years to the day since the end of the Great War—all vampires would cease to feed on humans without their consent. Likewise, they would cease to turn humans to vampires without their consent. In addition the Accord also stated that vampires had agreed to control their appearance in public places, subduing their natural aura of superhuman strength and power so as to no longer frighten the much weaker, human population. This stipulation did not merely refer to the requirement that vampires would fully retract their fangs in public. It also required them to do what they could to look less formidable: to avoid any deliberate shows of their extraordinary strength and speed and agility. Of course humans would still instantly know when they were in the company of a vampire; their autonomic nervous system’s response, an adrenaline-laced reminder to be cautious around a potential predator. It was understood by those drawing up the document that there would always be a handful of humans who, for reasons perverse or tragic, would want to consent to feeding or being turned, and so such consensual activities—though thoroughly discouraged—were not made illegal. 

“For their part, in acknowledgement and thanks for vampires agreeing to forgo those behaviours so central to their identities, to their very existence, the human population agreed to create blood banks specifically to provide vampires with sufficient food, and to do whatever else might reasonably be expected to make the vampires’ sacrifices manageable and tolerable. Humans also agreed to cease all acts of discrimination and persecution: _In perpetuity_. 

“It was a common view amongst humans at the time that they had got the better end of the deal. That all they’d really had to agree to was to donate blood every once in a while and be a bit more civil: easy. Vampires, with their longer view of the doings of man, thought the human commitment to eternal goodwill would prove anything but straightforward for that notoriously capricious species to maintain, as the decades, let alone centuries, passed, and memories faded.

“Not surprisingly, the path from that historic document to the present-day integrated and tolerant (at least on the surface) human-vampire society has not been without incident. Even now, 90 years on, there are occasional instances of a vampire attacking and feeding from a terror-struck, defenceless human soul—through boredom or frustration or sheer longing for the taste of fresh human blood, warm and pulsing out of a puncture wound. And because of the desperation and craving fuelling such attacks, the vampire more often than not loses control, over-feeds and comes round from their blood high to find a body, still faintly warm but no longer pulsing, grasped to their breast, or slumped across their knee.

“And in the run-up to elections, it’s not unusual for some rabidly right-wing human politician to attempt to stir up anti-vampire feeling by reminding humans of these isolated incidents, and by reminding them of their weakness and vulnerability in comparison to the superior strength and speed, and power—physical, economic, and political—of the vampire populace. 

“But for the most part, humans and vampires get along fairly well when their paths cross. Of course, there are far fewer vampires than humans (one in a thousand roughly speaking), and many in both species still tend to socialise and form relationships primarily within their own species. That said, ever since the legalisation of human-vampire marriage as part of the Accord, there has been a slow but steady increase in the number of such marriages. And pioneering research was carried out from the 1930’s onwards, designed to understand and address the biological incompatibilities between vampires and humans, in order to allow such couples to produce offspring (until 1920, vampires had extended their families by turning humans—including orphaned children—to vampires, a convention made illegal by the Accord). The breakthrough didn’t actually come until 1969, when Jennifer and David Okonkwo—reproductive biologists and a human-vampire couple themselves—managed to fertilise a human egg with vampire sperm, after a decade of painstaking experimental work. As any student of biology knows, the discovery led to them being awarded a Nobel Prize—and very touchingly, to the birth of their daughter, Stella. 

"Many vampires still choose to live extremely private lives and to keep nocturnal hours, although they can as a species manage perfectly well with daylight. But many no longer choose to live in this way, hidden behind the high walls and heavy doors of the oldest houses and castles and colleges. They live in flats and bungalows and semi-detached Victorian villas, cheek-by-jowl with their human neighbours. They go to the opera and the supermarket, and they work in universities and hospitals and offices. And the police force."


	2. Chapter 2

James Hathaway—definitely human, though pale enough to have been regularly teased as a child about his supposed vampire-like appearance, is listening to the Today Programme on Radio 4 while he gets ready for work. What really used to irritate the young James about the teasing was not actually the name-calling—he’d never understood why being called a vampire was considered an insult. No, what used to irritate him was the bloody inaccuracy of the taunts; the idea of vampires as pallid and sun-fearing creatures being no more accurate than any of the other ridiculous assumptions and stereotypes still lazily exchanged in human society. Vampires, of course, historically were much more active during the hours of darkness, needing less sleep and having superior night vision compared to humans. Their collective tendency to value privacy probably also contributed to their habit of spending the busy daylight hours in their homes, only venturing out once the majority of humans were safely tucked up in their beds. But none of this means that vampires don’t like or can’t deal with sunlight—that’s just a myth perpetuated by humans, who perhaps find it comforting to believe that vampires have at least one vulnerability. 

On the radio, Mishal Husain finishes a well-argued item on the slow pace of improvement in girls’ education in Pakistan, and James grabs his jacket and starts checking the pockets for keys and wallet. He’s just leaning over the piles of books and papers on his dining table to switch the radio off when John Humphrys introduces the next piece with the words, “Six years ago, World Health Organisation scientists confirmed what had been suspected for decades—that vampires worldwide are showing signs of a general decline in health and functioning. Common symptoms include increased rates of aging, fatigue, pain, and reduced strength. Finally, ground-breaking research at the Institut Pasteur in Paris has identified the cause of this malaise: humans. Or rather lack of contact with humans.”

James drops down onto the chair next to the table. 

“The findings from a series of linked studies suggest that when vampires feed directly from humans, not only are they nourished by the blood they ingest, but also by the physical contact, warmth, traces of minerals in the sweat on human skin and so forth. According to the new research, all these factors support vampire’s longevity, help them heal from injuries, and maintain their impressive strength and speed. With the introduction of the Human-Vampire Accord in 1920, almost all vampires ceased to have regular physical contact with humans, feeding instead from bags of donated blood, and they’ve been paying an unanticipated price ever since: a slow, subtle, but irrefutable decline in health and well-being.”

James pictures his boss, Lewis—tired, irritable, back aching—the very image of a vampire in decline. James has no idea when Lewis was turned to a vampire, nor under what circumstances; doesn’t know how old his boss really is. What he does know is what he’s observed over the five years they’ve worked together; that despite the myth that vampires don’t age and are immortal, Lewis clearly looks older than when James first met him. In fact vampires were never immortal and always did age—just at such a slow rate that in the old days, the days of direct feeding, it might take decades, centuries even, for a vampire’s appearance to substantially change. These days they appear to be aging almost as rapidly as humans, and as far as James can see, Lewis more rapidly than most. The combination of grief and police work is evidently not a good one for this particular ailing vampire.

Humphrys reports that the research currently offers no clear treatment option, although several alternatives are being tested, with the results of the first pilot trials expected to be made public over the next few months. There is a short, pre-recorded statement from the Minister for Health, expressing optimism that an effective treatment will be found and at the same time assuring humans that under no circumstances will direct feeding be considered an acceptable solution to the problem. The item ends with Humphrys making reference to the Human-Vampire Accord again; to the commitment made on the part of the human species, to do everything reasonable within their power to make the foregoing of non-consensual direct feeding tolerable for vampires. He asks some of the questions that many listeners, human and vampire alike, are no doubt asking themselves:

Should, [and will], humans in 2011 be held to a commitment made on their behalf by their great, great, grandparents?

If yes, how much should humans be willing to give? What counts as ‘reasonable’ under such circumstances? 

If no, what would such a rejection of the Accord mean? How might a sickly and perhaps justifiably resentful vampire population respond under such circumstances?

The item ends and James realises he’s still sitting in his flat and it’s twenty to nine. He dashes out to his car and noses it into the rush-hour traffic, heading towards Oxford city centre, towards the Central Police Station where he has been based for the last several years. Towards Lewis.


	3. Chapter 3

He steps into their shared office just gone nine and hurries to power up his computer. Lewis is already there and has been for some time if the large paper Costa Coffee cup in the wastepaper bin is anything to go on. He’s obviously deeply engrossed in the file he’s reading and James doesn’t want to disturb him.

Lewis glances up and James mouths sorry. Lewis raises an eyebrow, a small, efficient gesture that effectively communicates something along the lines of “Are you OK? Is there any reason other than traffic—a reason I should be concerned—why you’re late? If not, I’m in the middle of something.” James merely cracks a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth and shakes his head. Lewis looks at him for a second or two more, then nods and directs his attention back to his reading. 

There are no outward signs that Lewis has heard the news, but then what signs would there be? He looks as he always does; solid, handsome in a rather creased, tired-looking way; blue eyes that at times can be astonishingly warm, and at others, cool and witheringly direct, currently shadowed and hooded as he reads and makes notes. 

Lewis realises that he’s being watched and looks up, that questioning look now slightly more irritable: _What?!_ James shrugs and looks away.

__________________________________________________

They go out for a sandwich at lunchtime. Lewis doesn’t derive any nourishment from eating of course, but he eats regularly all the same. James wonders if he finds it comforting somehow; the rhythm of regular meals, of chewing and swallowing; the reminder of a different time, however long ago, when what he ate actually mattered.

“I was late because I was listening to something on the radio.”

He glances over at the other man, who is inspecting the inside of his cheese sandwich.

Lewis sighs and cuts him off. “You heard it then, did you?” He reassembles the sandwich, minus the rocket, and takes a substantial bite. “So?”

“It’s good news, isn’t it? That they understand what's going on?”

Lewis finishes chewing. “Is it? Think there’s going to be a queue of humans forming round the John Radcliffe, baring their necks in anticipation? Think the majority aren’t quite happy with the fact that we’re slowly losing our strength? Can’t blame them, really. Not sure I’d be keen on a re-energised vampire population either, if I were human.”

James shakes his head, exasperated by Lewis’ assessment of the situation, his resignation. When he speaks, it comes out more forcefully than he might have liked: “I don’t know about the majority, sir, but I’m not happy. A promise was made. It matters. You’ve suffered for decades keeping your part of the deal. It’s our turn to step up now. It’s only fair.”

“Don’t know that fairness has much to do with it.” Lewis looks irritable, like he’s about to snap something else. But then he turns to James and his expression softens a little.

“Come on. Let’s get back. See if we can apply a little fairness to the distribution of work on the end-of-month report?”

James feigns astonishment. “A novel idea, sir. I doubt it’ll catch on.” 

“Cheeky sod.” Lewis looks stern, but there’s no bite in his voice, and as they make their way out of the café, Lewis pats him on the shoulder. They walk back to the station in comfortable silence and James muses—not for the first time—on this physical aspect of their relationship. So many factors suggest that they might go out of their way never to touch. Firstly, and most obviously, Lewis is vampire and James is human. Many humans still find physical contact with vampires unsettling. Their bodies, their reptile brains, their nervous systems, react as any prey would when in physical proximity to a predator, even if their rational minds are able to say, _"It’s not like that any more."_ There are plenty of humans who aren’t bothered of course, and he sees humans, well, female humans really, hug and even kiss Lewis every now and again. Of course there are also humans who make a point of shaking his hand or hugging him, but in a stiff, uncomfortable way that reeks of _look at me touching the vampire! See, this proves I’m not prejudiced!_ From what James has observed over the years, with the exception of Lewis occasionally using his ability to disturb humans as a means of pushing a suspect, he usually takes his cue from whoever the human is, when it comes to physical contact. 

Which makes the fact that Lewis regularly pats his back and squeezes his shoulder doubly odd; because God knows James Hathaway is not Sergeant Touchy-Feely and he doubts he’s giving out _I’m up for a cuddle_ vibes to people in general or Lewis in particular. And on top of that, Lewis is straight, and straight men can be a distinctly funny about physical contact with other men. And James, well, what he is, is complicated, but suffice it to say, on the few occasions he has had intimate physical contact with someone, they’ve been female—and human. He doesn’t find intimacy, or friendship even, particularly easy, and on the whole he prefers not to get involved with people, physically or otherwise. But actually, somehow, Lewis—his straight, male, vampire boss—is a bit of an exception. He’s rigorously examined his thoughts and feelings on the matter and he’s confident that he has no more interest in intimacy with Lewis than he has with anyone else. But he feels about as comfortable with Lewis as he’s capable of feeling, and he’s come to appreciate the strong, familiar presence of his boss—to find him reassuring. And it’s not lost on James that for a human to find a vampire reassuring is a decidedly uncommon notion.


	4. Chapter 4

June and most of July pass in a haze of glorious weather and little serious crime. Apparently even the murderers and psychopaths of Oxford would rather be dozing in the long grass in Port Meadow, or dipping their pale feet in the Cherwell, than going about their usual loathsome business. So Lewis and Hathaway catch up on their paperwork, familiarise themselves with every updated policy document in their in-trays, and help colleagues deal with the few incidents of petty theft and antisocial behaviour to trouble beautiful, sun-bleached Oxford. 

But then in the last week of July the weather breaks with three days of spectacular thunderstorms and rain of biblical proportions. On the morning of the fourth day, the body of a young man is found, facedown in a muddy flowerbed at Magdalen College. He’s been stabbed in the back several times, so there’s no chance of this being anything but foul play. With a mixture of sinking heart and surging adrenalin, James drives them to the scene of the crime. He’s not exactly excited to finally have a murder to investigate again, but what he is feeling is a close enough relative of excitement for him to be thoroughly ashamed of his reaction. It’s an even more sombre-looking than usual DS Hathaway, therefore, who stands to one side of the victim—who is curled up in the foetal position, looking unbearably vulnerable amongst the snapdragons and sweet peas—as Lewis crouches down to get a closer look at an indistinct shoeprint in the waterlogged soil.

It takes them best part of a week to catch the murderer—a week in which they repeatedly get soaked in sudden deluges as they dash between relatives and suspects, cars and buildings. The victim is identified as Li Chao, the 18-year-old son of a diplomat based at the Chinese embassy in London. Li had been attending a summer language school in Oxford. There is enormous political pressure for the case to be solved quickly, something made difficult by cultural barriers, by the tendency of diplomats—British and Chinese alike—to be slippery and secretive (though exhaustingly polite), and by the relentless bloody rain. Paranoia about possible political dimensions to the murder is running high. James and Lewis have been putting in 14-hour days, they’re both stressed and exhausted, and James can’t remember the last time he felt properly dry. Day by day, he watches the frown lines around Lewis’ eyes deepen and the bags under his eyes darken till they look bruised. Late one evening, still at the office and with Lewis looking sunken and grim, James has to say something.

“Are you OK, sir? We’ve been at this since seven this morning, maybe you . . .” 

Lewis glowers at him. “Of course I’m OK. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

James tries again. “I just thought perhaps if you got some rest . . .”

Lewis doesn’t even let him finish. “Oh, you think I’m past it an’ all, do you? Innocent been having a word, has she?”

It feels like a slap, and the temptation is there to have a go back, but he swallows it down—no point making things worse than they already are. And what the hell was that about Innocent?

“No, sir. I was just trying to help.”

Lewis sighs. “Well, if you want to help, start going through those statements from the kids at the language school again,” and he stands up and holds out the pile of statements for James—a peace offering of sorts. There’s a fleeting moment of eye contact as James takes them, a nod from Lewis, and then they both settle down again behind their respective desks, each revisiting some aspect of the evidence, looking for something, anything that might give them a way into the case. James opens the first file and starts reading, trying to see the information through fresh eyes. It doesn’t stop him worrying about Lewis of course, but he keeps his worries to himself. 

Finally they have a breakthrough. Mobile phone records show that Li received frequent calls from another mobile in the days leading up to his murder. This second phone was originally bought in Brazil, and as there are currently 47 Brazilian youngsters enrolled with the language school—none of them with the name of the phone purchaser—it takes a while for Lewis and Hathaway to get to the bottom of it. But get there they eventually do, unearthing a depressing tale of petty envy and impulsive action, immediately regretted but irreversible. One of Li’s fellow students had just not been able to bear that he had such a beautiful car, phone, computer, trainers; just couldn’t bear that this by all accounts pleasant, unassuming young man had access to such riches. 

By the time they’ve interviewed and then charged the killer (they’d had to wait for an interpreter), and they’ve briefed Innocent—who is all smiles now the case is solved, and spoken to Li’s distraught parents, Lewis looks haggard. They do the essential paperwork then drag themselves to a quiet pub in a back street, away from the tourists, and order a beer each. They exchange a few quiet comments about the case, but really they’re both too tired for chitchat, and settle into silence. 

A woman in an expensive looking suit sits down at the table next to them and pulls a newspaper from her oversized handbag. James watches her, perplexed as to why a woman, such a smartly dressed, professional woman at that, would choose to read a sexist piece of tabloid crap like the Sun. She shifts around a little in her seat, and for the first time he can see the front-page headline.

VAMPIRES SAY ‘FANGS’  
FOR THE HUGS

The rest of the print, below the headline, is too small for James to read, so he’s got no way of making sense of such a bizarre headline. It’s extremely frustrating because clearly something important must be going on in relation to vampires to make the Sun give over the whole of its front page to the story, presumably relegating the usual pictures of drunk, semi-naked celebrities to inside pages.

He realises that he’s staring and turns back to his pint, only to find that Lewis is watching him; he’s clearly read the headline too. Lewis shrugs and takes a long swallow of beer, his expression all long-suffering, “what fresh hell is this?” misery. Because vampires hitting the tabloid headlines is never good news.

Ten minutes later, the woman finishes her drink, checks her phone for messages, and goes, leaving the paper on her table. She’s barely ten steps away before James leans over and grabs it. Without saying a word, Lewis moves their glasses out of the way, as James unfolds the paper and places it on the table between them.

Obviously, the Sun isn’t really in the business of the dissemination of news stories. It’s a rag that revels in scandal and titillation, with no compunction about selling people’s personal suffering as entertainment. James feels grubby just touching the dreadful thing. Sifting through the innuendo and bad puns, the basic story appears to be that the results are in from the first of the pilot vampire treatment studies, and the findings are broadly positive. Although direct feeding from humans is definitely the most efficient way to improve vampire health, an alternative, almost as effective method, has been identified: the hugging alluded to in the headline. 

There is evidence that vampires who have regular extended physical contact with a human but who do not feed from them—the few vampires with human spouses for example—are almost as healthy as those who do feed directly from their partners. As a result, this kind of non-feeding physical contact was tested against various other conditions in a pilot randomised controlled trial. The Sun, not surprisingly, makes a great deal of the fact that members of human/vampire BDSM clubs who meet regularly for feeding sessions acted as one of the comparison groups in the study. At any rate, the vampires in the physical contact without direct feeding condition are in a lot better shape after four months of treatment than the control group, who had no physical contact with humans other than the occasional shake of a hand. 

Predictably, the Sun chooses to report that what’s required is five hours of sex a week, and muses on the possibility of vampires being prescribed “shagging on the NHS.” But as James reads on the Guardian website at home later that evening, sex is not required to elicit the desired outcome. What is required is a minimum of five hours a week of sufficiently close physical contact to raise the vampire’s core temperature, and to increase levels of the various hormones and proteins associated with vampire longevity, strength, and wellbeing. In the published treatment development trial, this had been operationalised as five hours of clothed cuddling, with a small amount of direct skin contact in the form of handholding. 

The Guardian also reports that a number of larger-scale studies are underway, testing alternative ‘doses’ of physical contact, and also testing the feasibility of an effective vampire treatment service based around volunteers from the human population. The latter is a multi-site study, but the University of Oxford is taking a leading role and the Vampire Congress website informs James that they’re currently recruiting participants—both vampire and human—for the study.

James shudders, struggling to think of anything more excruciating than having to cuddle a stranger for hours at a time. He’s genuinely happy that a treatment has been identified, and with his over-developed sense of duty thinks that perhaps he ought to volunteer. But he’s acquired enough self-awareness over the last few years to recognise that no good is likely to come of forcing himself to do something so out of his comfort zone, no matter how well intentioned. 

As he sips his scotch in the fading light, his mind turns to Lewis. It occurs to him that perhaps these recent scientific revelations about how essential close human contact is in order for vampires to flourish, shed some light on Lewis’ habit of patting him and leaning against him, and walking so close to him that their shoulders rub and press against each other. Perhaps unconsciously, Lewis has been seeking from James the contact and comfort he needs to be well; to heal? James doesn’t quite know what to make of that. It seems implausible to him that he would be Lewis’ first choice of comforter—anybody’s first choice really. But though he can’t make much sense of it, James finds that he rather likes the idea anyway.

He’s only ever known the current version of his boss; weary, irritable, with little more power and strength than a human male. That’s not the whole story of course. There’s much more to the man than that. He has an intelligence and wisdom that does at times seem as if it has its basis in perhaps centuries of life experience. There’s a dry and surprisingly mischievous sense of humour. And a deep well of compassion—gruffly expressed at times—but in James’ opinion, no less affecting for that. He has all of the subtlety and complexity one would expect of a centuries-old vampire, but none of the sense of superiority and snobbery that can sometimes result from having had long years over which to develop knowledge—and to observe the mistakes and failings of humans. James is attracted by the idea of having centuries to read and learn and travel. To immerse oneself in cultures and languages and literature. To develop—as Lewis clearly has—a deep understanding of people and their motives and behaviour. Not for the first time, James thinks that there might definitely be some advantages to being a vampire.

But bringing him mind back to Lewis' physical state, in terms of the fabled vampire superior strength, there’s nothing really to see. Well, that’s not quite true. There are moments, just occasional moments, when Lewis shows glimpses of power, of perseverance, of an ability to make suspects blanch just by looking directly at them. James, perhaps more than anyone in recent years has witnessed echoes of the vampire Lewis once was. He has on many occasions wondered what Lewis used to be like, vital and energetic; at the height of his powers. And it’s with a real sense of anticipation that James realises that he might actually get to see Lewis fully, impressively himself—for the first time; if the stubborn bloke will actually get himself some treatment. Which going on his usual avoidance of all things health-related, is no foregone conclusion.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning James is in the office early, despite Lewis having given him instructions to get a proper night’s sleep and not to be in before nine. He spent a long time last night thinking about how best to broach the subject of the Oxford treatment trial. He knows that Lewis will have watched the news—he likes to keep abreast of current affairs. But he would put money on Lewis not having looked into treatments available locally, despite the BBC news website and the Vampire Congress website being full of information. 

Lewis has always shown a maddening disregard for his own health and wellbeing. Perhaps this is what vampires are like? Maybe, they’ve been so used to feeling invulnerable, to being invulnerable to illness and aging, that now they are weaker, more susceptible, they don’t want to acknowledge it. So they carry on as if nothing has changed, as if the very idea that they might need to go to the doctor or dentist, to take care of themselves, is an insult. Or maybe it’s just Lewis who’s exasperatingly stubborn and ostrich-like about his health? Either way, James is confident that Lewis will do precisely nothing to find out about what’s available in the way of treatment locally, which is particularly infuriating given that the University of Oxford has been given huge amounts of funding to set up a centre of excellence, and Lewis could probably easily access the most effective treatment currently available.

Every conversation James imagines in which he raises the subject ends in Lewis telling him to mind his own business. So in the end he decides to just put printouts of the relevant information on Lewis’ desk, along with a decent takeaway coffee, and wait to see what happens. The man himself arrives at quarter to nine looking marginally less drained than he had when they parted company yesterday. He hovers near James’ desk for a while, chatting about the paperwork they need to finish today to wrap the case up. Finally, he sits down at his own desk. James watches as he glances at the bundle of papers—and then wordlessly moves them to one side and switches on his computer. James could easily groan with frustration, but at least Lewis hasn’t immediately binned the information. James just needs to be patient. Handy then that his struggling with patience was one of the reasons it was suggested to him at the seminary that he might not be well suited to the life of a priest. That—and his reluctance to suffer fools gladly. Oh, and his wavering faith. James knows of old that jumping aboard this particular train of thoughts yet again is not going to do him any favours, and with a sigh drags his mind back to his present day frustrations.

__________________________________________________

Nothing is said until Friday night, when they’ve had a takeaway and a couple of beers round at Lewis’ place. They watch the news after QI, and there’s a brief mention of funding for the new treatment trials. When the news finishes and the weather comes on, James rather daringly reaches for the remote (daring because after all, it’s Lewis’ house, so Lewis’ remote), and switches the TV off. Lewis of course knows exactly what’s coming—James can feel him bristle beside him.

“Go on, then. You’ve been dying to say something all week.”

“Are you going to sign up for the Oxford trial?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Sergeant, but I’m not interested. I don’t have the time. And I don’t want to spend what little spare time I do have, cuddling a bloody stranger. And I’m just as sure some do-gooding 19-year-old sociology student trying to get some voluntary work on their CV will be equally unlikely to want to cuddle me. So let’s just drop it.”

“But, sir.” 

James doesn’t even get a chance to argue with him.

“I said drop it, Sergeant!”

So, he has to let it go for now—but it definitely isn’t over. He is not going to let Lewis do this. There have been times over their years working together when he has battled with Lewis, argued with him furiously, and afterwards James has utterly regretted his actions, regretted every one of his heated words. But this is different—this really matters. If Lewis won’t seek treatment for himself, for whatever complicated set of reasons, then it’s up to James to find a way to get him to that treatment—to battle if need be. Apart from any other consideration, he knows that if the tables were turned, Lewis would put every ounce of his remaining strength into getting James the care he needed.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next two weeks James revisits the subject several times, using all the arguments he can think of. He appeals to Lewis’ need to stay fit to be able to continue working, but is met with a snort and Lewis’ view that retirement is looking increasingly attractive by the day. He even tries appealing to Lewis’ sense of pride in himself: “Don’t you want to be strong and powerful again, sir?” Lewis doesn’t even dignify this attempt with a reply, but the look he gives James is so withering that James has to look away, his face burning with embarrassment.

And one Saturday night, after they’ve been at a pub, drinking steadily all evening, and are walking over the Magdalen Bridge towards a taxi rank, he appeals shamelessly to Lewis’ love of his children. Lewis comes to an abrupt halt and leans heavily against the stonework of the bridge.

“You know as well as I do that barring disaster, I’ll see both of them into old age.” Then he turns away from James, talking to the shadowy, moon-silvered river instead.

“And knowing that I might shuffle off this mortal bloody coil this century instead of having to hang around alone till Kingdom come . . .” He pushes himself away from the stonework with his hands and then walks off, leaving James stunned and dizzy enough that he too feels the need to step back from the bridge edge, to look away from the swirling water below. 

_Jesus_. It’s never occurred to him. _Stupid_. What must it be like facing the possibility not of immortality, but of at least hundreds of years of forming friendships and falling in love . . . and then waiting for every last one of the humans you care about to die? And some sooner than others: Val; Morse. Even in his drunken haze, James feels the enormity of it; the endless rolling waves of grief that Lewis must face, crashing over him again and again. They walk the rest of the way in silence, James a couple of paces behind, and once he’s seen Lewis home, he excuses himself. He needs to be alone with his thoughts, frustrated now at the amount of alcohol in his system making it that much harder to focus.

By the time Monday morning comes round and he’s back at work, James is no clearer as to the right thing to say, to feel, about what Lewis said on Magdalen Bridge. He can understand, perhaps more than many, the comfort of knowing that there will be an end to sorrow. But. Surely it can’t be right that Lewis should voluntarily suffer and fade when he could feel, could be, so much stronger and healthier? And who knows, perhaps feeling so much better might influence the other side of the issue—might help him cope with the losses and enjoy the benefits of his longevity? 

James knows of old that there are questions and dilemmas so immense, so difficult, that he can’t solve them on his own, through logical thought—though God knows he has a long and inglorious history of trying. His spiritual adviser at the seminary viewed his difficulty in offering such struggles up to God, through prayer, as a sign of a weak faith, as arrogance. And who knows, perhaps he was right? Though it wasn’t quite that James didn’t trust that God was capable of understanding and maybe even showing him a way forward. It was more that he felt guilty, contemptibly lazy, if he personally wasn’t trying as hard as he could, even if that trying was as effective and as good for him as repeatedly hitting his head against a brick wall. So, as he sits alone in the office on Monday morning, he has no answer to his Lewis dilemma; and despite a weekend of intense contemplation and little sleep, there has been no prayer. 

But at 10.30, Lewis walks into the office carrying a heavy box full of textbooks—evidence in their current investigation into the disappearance of an economics doctoral student. He foolishly bends down to place the box on the floor, and then grunts in obvious pain as he straightens his back. James is out of his chair and by Lewis’ side in an instant, pushing the bloody box out of the way with his foot and hovering while Lewis lowers himself into his chair. Suddenly, James is clear. It might not be about logic, and it might not be “right,” but it is how he feels.

“It might suit you to carry on like this, feeling worse every month when there’s in all likelihood an effective treatment.” He realises that he’s practically shouting and with considerable effort lowers his voice so as not to attract the attention of people in neighbouring offices, who would be only too riveted by a blazing row between Lewis, the vampire DI, and his aloof, loyal sergeant. He growls: 

“But it doesn’t suit me.”

Well that’s got Lewis going, and he apparently is feeling no need at all to keep his voice down:

“For God’s sake! You’re not still on about this, are you?! Anyway, what’s it got to do with you?” Lewis looks genuinely mystified—and furious.

Well James is fucking furious too—an icy, hard anger cauterising the wound of that rebuff.

“No, you’re right. Absolutely nothing to do with me.” He turns to walk out of the office, just managing to resist the urge to slam the door; wanting to put some distance between them, but . . . _fuck it_. He stops in the doorway and turns back towards Lewis, who has walked round the side of his desk and is standing, hands on hips, fingers splayed, shoving his suit jacket back on both sides.

“Actually, sir,”—his voice comes out loud and unnaturally high—“did it ever occur to you that there are people who care about you? Who hate seeing you suffer? Who—humans included—would rejoice in seeing you powerful and well? Fully yourself?” 

They glare at each other in the electric silence that follows, and it’s not clear who’s more shocked at his outburst—Lewis or James himself. But it’s true, so there’s no point trying to take it back. He has come to care about his governor. Not in any kind of romantic or sexual way, but he finds himself thinking about what Lewis might need or want. He enjoys the chance to impress him, or failing that, to wind him up. And he hates seeing him struggling or in pain. No one is more surprised than James really, but there it is. And the man is currently being infuriatingly, frustratingly wrongheaded about this whole treatment issue. 

Lewis is still staring at him, eyes wide, mouth open, as if his face knows he should be saying something, but his brain has no idea what. Then Lewis’ mobile rings and he fishes it out of his inside jacket pocket and snaps, “Lewis. What? Right,” into the mouthpiece. James just has time to move out of his way as he strides through the door, muttering something about needing to collect a ballistics report, and looking like a condemned man who’s just been given a stay of execution. James is left standing just outside their office, still livid, not least because it’s pretty obvious that the subject of Lewis joining the Oxford treatment project really is closed. He takes in a short, decisive breath, his nostrils flaring as he does. _Right. Plan B, then_.


	7. Chapter 7

At 7.30 pm, James rings the bell to Lewis’ flat. He’s got a carrier bag in his right hand and his palm feels sweaty against the plastic handle. Lewis opens the door, sees James and sighs—but steps aside to allow him to come in, and then leads the way to the kitchen. 

_Best just get on with it_. James unpacks the contents of the bag onto the kitchen counter. Lewis glances across at him, a hint of suspicion in the narrowing of his eyes. “What’s this?”

“Four bottles of Isis Pale, two DVDs, and the treatment protocol for the Oxford feasibility study. You can choose what we watch—while we’re in treatment.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “In treatment?”

“In treatment, sir. You need 5 hours a week so I was thinking a longish film one evening a week, and then maybe working our way through all the TV series we’ve missed out on—3 hours at a time—each weekend. I quite fancy making a start on Whitechapel, but it’s up to you.”

Lewis looks more dumbfounded than angry. Even so, James starts babbling. “I just thought that it’d be easier if we have something to do . . . obviously we’ll need to be flexible to work round cases, but I think it’s doable, if we do a bit more of our drinking at your place rather than at pubs.” 

Finally, Lewis speaks. “You can’t be serious?”

“Serious enough to track down an ex of a friend of someone in the band who’s working on the feasibility study, and persuade them to give me a copy of the protocol—much against their better judgement and the contract they signed when they took their job as a data manager on the study. So it’s important you don't talk to anyone about this—they could lose their job if it became known that the protocol has been leaked.”

“I doubt me chatting to everyone and his dog about this,” Lewis waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the protocol, “will be a problem.” He shakes his head, and the tight lines round his eyes and mouth soften. “James. This is . . . I know you mean well. Have you any idea though, how embarrassing it would be, us having to cuddle, week in, week out?”

“Have _you_ any idea how miserable it is having to watch you suffer unnecessarily, week in, week out?”

Lewis’ head shoots up from the DVD box he’s been idly studying. He looks like he’s trying to choose his words carefully. 

“Look. I appreciate the thought. But you don’t want to do this. I know you, I know how bloody awkward you’d find it.” 

“And yet, here I am.”

Lewis meets his gaze for a moment, then closes his eyes. He looks so weary. James presses on, feeling suddenly young, distressed, scared that he’s going to fail. He knows he sounds desperate, but what else can he do but keep trying?

“I know it’s awkward, I do; but can’t we at least give it a go a couple of times, just to see? If it’s too uncomfortable, we’ll stop; think again.” _Come on. Please. Just try_. 

Lewis looks back down at the DVD in his hand. He studies the back of the box, frowning. After what feels like an eternity, he lets out a breath.

“Well, I’m not watching this bloody thing, for a start. You couldn’t get me to watch it at the cinema, so why you think you can sneak it in now . . . “

James tilts his head away to hide a smile, the relief bubbling up through him, forcing his mouth up at the corners. Yes, Lewis is grumbling and complaining, of course he is; but about the film, not the plan. _This_ , he can work with.

“Of course, sir. No Korean meditative masterpieces. Inception it is.”

__________________________________________________

James opens the protocol to the page describing the required physical contact, and begins to read it to Lewis, who is apparently fully occupied with putting together some cheese and biscuits to go with the beers he’s opened. James isn’t fooled; he knows that Lewis is perfectly capable of pottering round his kitchen, looking completely disinterested, and taking in every detail of what James is saying.

Beers and snacks in hand, they go through to the lounge and arrange themselves on Lewis’ sofa as per the illustration in the protocol: James sitting wedged into the corner at one end, feet on the floor; Lewis sitting with his legs up, stretched out along the length of the sofa, his back pressed against James’ chest. As the film starts, James wraps his arms around Lewis, and honestly, if they could just leave it at this, it wouldn’t be too bad at all. But they both know that there has to be some direct skin contact, otherwise—and the protocol is very clear on the matter—there’s not much point in doing any of it. What James needs to do is take one of Lewis’ hands in his own, but he’s stalled—he just can’t seem to take this last step. He can feel the tension in Lewis, in the stiffness in his back, in the way that he’s not quite leaning all of his weight against James. James casts his eyes round the room, as if he might find inspiration in the framed photos and piles of papers, the CDs and the dying potted fern. They sit caught in this taut silence, against which, the music over the opening credits, is uncomfortably loud. Finally, he hears Lewis suck in a breath and growl, “For Christ’s sake.” Lewis grabs James’ left hand with his right, and brings them to rest on Lewis’ thigh. 

And yes it does feel weird and embarrassing and awkward, but James finds himself grinning hopelessly over Lewis’ shoulder, all the same. _He’s done it. He’s made it happen!_ Now he’s just got to make sure they keep going.

Twenty minutes later and James hasn’t taken in a single detail of the film, so focussed is he on monitoring every tiny sound and shift in weigh that Lewis makes. _Is he already fed up? Is he about to pull away, to call a halt to this strange new twist in their already unusual inspector-sergeant relationship?_ But actually, neither of these worries seems especially warranted. After an initial grumpiness that James could feel radiating from Lewis like heat from a sun, Lewis seems to have relaxed into the situation, and is now, as far as James can tell, full absorbed in the film, his whole weight pressing back into James’ embrace. _So far, so good._

An hour on again and James is pulled out of the film because his left shoulder and arm have gone to sleep, pressed as they are between the back of the sofa and Lewis’ solid weight. The fact that he actually got caught up in the film is surprising enough to James, given the circumstances. But the fact that at some point in the last hour, Lewis—surely without being aware of it—laced his fingers through James’, and James didn’t even notice, is extraordinary. James closes his eyes and follows the gentle, hypnotic stroke back and forth as Lewis idly rubs the edge of James hand with the soft pad of his thumb. Sod the film. And sod the fact that he’s now got pins and needles in his arm, and his beer-filled bladder is complaining about having a substantial, male vampire resting against it. Lewis appears to be comfortable and relaxed and staying put, and that’s all that matters. 

Of course Lewis himself doesn’t see it like that when the film ends and he gets up off the sofa and turns towards James just in time to catch the grimace of pain as James tries to move his arm. Lewis shakes his head and says with obvious frustration, “Why the hell didn’t you say something?!”

“It only came on ten minutes ago. I didn’t want to disturb.”

What was that ridiculous phrase that Lewis had said to him once? _You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking_. Well neither is Lewis. James knows that he’s seen right through the lie. But Lewis’ face softens to a kind of fond exasperation. 

“Yer daft bugger.”

“Of course, sir.” He stands, having to use his right hand to push himself up, his left one dangling uselessly by his side.

“What did you think? That if you needed a break to stretch or something, I’d do a runner?”

What can he say? He studies the carpet, glad of the distraction of the pain in his arm and bladder. _If he’s fucked this up already, just by trying not to fuck it up . . ._

But it seems that Lewis decides to take pity on him, though perhaps only James could hear the sternness in that voice and correctly understand the depth of the caring there. 

“Right. Let’s get something straight from the off. If we’re going to do this, then there’ll be no bloody Catholic-style suffering and self-sacrifice. Is that clear?! It’s bad enough having to be looked after by me sergeant, when by rights it should be me, the inspector, looking after you. There won’t be a second go at this unless I know that you’ll speak up if you’re uncomfortable.” 

“Understood, sir.”

Lewis scratches his ear. “I don’t just mean being uncomfortable physically . . . you should say if you don’t want to . . . if it was unpleasant . . .”

“It was fine.” _Fine? Is that what it was_? James stumbles on. “It could have been a lot worse.” _Jesus._

Lewis gives him an old-fashioned look, then dry as you like, “I’ll take that as a compliment then, shall I? It’s right up there with ‘you don’t sweat much for a big lad,’ isn’t it?”

James is back to studying the carpet, but he can’t keep the smirk off his face.

“No wonder you’re beating them off with a big stick.” 

There’s a hint of a question about it, but not one James has any intention of answering. “As you say, sir.”

A complicated look passes between them, then Lewis sighs.

James starts to move away. It’s not that he wants to put an end to the conversation. Well, not just that—he really does need to pee. 

“Just going to use the facilities.” He gets as far as the living room doorway.

“James?”

Yes, sir?”

“Thanks.”


	8. Chapter 8

James has been kept waiting for over a quarter of an hour by Professor George Tipton, Provost of Chancery College. According to Tipton’s secretary, he’s attending to urgent business. Given the hour, James suspects he’s having an afternoon nap. Eventually, James is permitted an audience. It’s just a matter of clarifying a couple of points about college admittance procedure in relation to a cold case—nothing controversial—and James thinks he’ll be on his way back to the office in less than ten minutes. But he’s woefully underestimated the Provost’s capacity for self-importance and sheer bloody-mindedness.

“What d’ya mean, he wouldn’t talk to you?” James is back outside, on his mobile to Lewis. 

“I mean, he took one look at me, and said, ‘If I have to be of assistance with this tedious business, Constable, I want to speak to the organ-grinder, not the monkey.”

“Monkey?!” He can hear the amusement in Lewis’ voice; knows that he’s storing this little gem away for future reference. “Constable?!”

“I corrected him twice, but he seemed unable or unwilling to retain my rank in his short-term memory.”

“I see. I assume I’m the organ grinder in this scenario, or would that be Innocent? Am I just some over-promoted ape?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the organ-grinder, sir. And in fact monkeys and apes aren’t the same thing at all.”

“So says the monkey. I’ll see you by the porter’s office.”

“Yes, sir.”

And so twenty minutes later James is back outside the Provost’s office, but this time with Lewis by his side. They’re kept waiting no more than a minute, which makes James wonder what exactly the secretary has reported to her boss. As they walk into Tipton’s office, it’s almost worth the whole monkey thing just to see the look on Tipton’s face as he takes in Lewis. It’s not that Lewis would ever misuse his steadily returning powers. There’s no menace, no baring of fangs. There doesn’t need to be. He’s a vampire, radiating energy and strength and shrewd intelligence. He’s a sight to behold. Within a few minutes Lewis has extracted apologies to both of them from Tipton as well as the information they need, and they’re back outside enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. They part company at Lewis’ car, each with one final task to complete before the end of the day, but before they go their separate ways, Lewis confirms what James had already assumed—that they’ll meet up at Lewis’ later on for a couple of hours treatment. 

For the first few weeks they’d had a strict treatment routine; a film on a Tuesday or Wednesday night, and then wiling away one of the weekend afternoons, case depending, of course. But almost two months on, James doesn’t need to keep a log of the hours they’re putting in anymore, because it’s obvious that they’re far exceeding the five hours minimum each week. Their original schedule has become a routine central to both of their lives, but on top of that it’s usual for one of them—usually Lewis, though James is getting bolder—to turn to the other at some moment of stress or weariness and say something along the lines of, “Probably could do with a couple of hours tonight—you free?” And they always seem to find a way to be free.

Mostly they spend their treatment time at Lewis’, and these days, as soon as they arrive, they just automatically take off their jackets and ties, grab a beer, and cuddle up, like it's the most natural thing in the world. They’ve worked out how to read case files cuddled up, how James can play his guitar, and even how to eat takeaway; the foil containers of food lined up on a tea towel on Lewis’ outstretched legs. 

They’ve also become rather more flexible in the way they cuddle. It’s just as common these days for James to be the one on the receiving end; Lewis’ strong arms wrapped around him, his voice a deep, reassuring rumble that James can feel in his body. To be honest, it’s taken some getting used to, James not having been cuddled much before. To start with it was difficult for him to even know if he was enjoying it or not, so caught up was he in thoughts about getting it right, uncertainty about what to ask for, what to do.

In the end, he decided to learn from Lewis: as a strategy it had never failed him before. So, he’s observed as Lewis has moved them and adjusted them till he’s completely comfortable. He’s listened as Lewis has sighed with pleasure as he’s nestled into James arms; and when he’s pulled James in close to his own body. He’s noted how Lewis casually checks, “This OK?” And how he also casually says things—“Bloody hell, that feels good,” and “Looking forward to this is the only thing that’s got me through today”—that make James melt with happiness, despite himself. And in this way, bit-by-bit, James has learned how to be held: how to pay attention to his body, how to pay attention to the sensations and emotions there, how to know something of what he needs, and increasingly, how to organise things so that he gets precisely that. 

The turning point was one memorable Saturday afternoon after a pig of a case. They fell asleep on the sofa and woke two hours later, lying in each others’ arms. What neither of them has owned up to is that at different points in the first hour, they had each woken up, but both had been so deliciously warm and comfortable, that they’d just closed their eyes and drifted off again. In that moment of waking and realising that he was exactly where he needed to be, James was able, perhaps for the first time, to just allow himself to have what he wanted.

__________________________________________________

This evening, Lewis is lying on his sofa, back fitted snuggly against James’ chest. They’ve both rolled their sleeves up, for increased skin-to-skin contact, and their arms and hands are tangled together, resting on Lewis’ stomach. They’ve watched a bit of telly, but now they’re in comfortable silence, both with their eyes closed, Lewis resting his head back against James’ shoulder. The vampire feels warm and relaxed to James. Of course when they start each treatment session, Lewis’ body feels cool through the thin cotton layers of their shirts. Each time, it gives James an enormous sense of satisfaction as he feels Lewis’ core temperature rising, knowing that he is able to do this for Lewis, to give him warmth and comfort, and—as is increasingly evident—improved health.

James is quietly thrilled with the results of these first two months of treatment, though he hasn’t said anything to Lewis; mostly they do best when things aren’t spelt out and talked to death. There are the obvious physical changes in his boss: he looks younger and less tired, and considerably stronger than he did even a few weeks ago. But there are other kinds of changes happening too. He’s less irritable. He smiles more than James has ever known him to. He just seems more content—and more engaged in life. He’s started to suggest outings on free weekends and drags them off to concerts and walks to country pubs on weekday evenings; all things practically unheard of prior to treatment. James is beginning to have trouble keeping up with him, which he finds is a rather pleasing problem to have.

He smiles to himself and presses his cheek lightly against Lewis’ hair, which when he realises he’s done it gives him a jolt of surprise, until he also realises that actually, he’s been doing things like this with increasing regularity over the last few weeks. He finds this change in his own behaviour odder than the changes in Lewis—utterly unpredicted. He can see that Lewis is an attractive man, but he doesn’t fancy him, it isn’t that. It’s just . . . it’s just that something’s happening with all this cuddling, all these hours of feeling needed and appreciated and cared for in this unambiguous, physical way. It’s like some small, previously overlooked part of him is thawing; that he too, in his own way, is warming up. 

James sighs, and Lewis stirs a little. “You OK?” 

“I’m fine.” He squeezes Lewis’ hand, and the vampire is obviously reassured, because he snuggles back into James and they settle again into the soft silence. James’ mind idly wanders back over the last two months, back to where this started, to that awful case and how shockingly ill Lewis had looked.

“Sir?”

“Mmm?”

“You never did tell me what Innocent said to you that time during the Chao case, that had you thinking you were past it.”

“She said that I was looking every one of my 500 years. Bloody cheek.” He sounds distinctly put upon. 

_500?_ “You’re 500?!”

“Nah, she was taking the piss, man.” There’s a beat of silence, and then, 

“I’ll be 91 next birthday.”

“Sir?”

“I was turned in 1944, when I was 24.”

Strangely, that makes Lewis much younger than James had imagined.

He risks a question. “You being turned; was it to do with the war?”

“Aye.”

James doesn’t expect to learn anything more, and all is quiet for two or three minutes. He starts to wonder if Lewis has dozed off, but then,

“I was in Italy. Stationed in a village about 30 miles inland from Taranto, in the south. Mussolini had surrendered by then, and the German Tenth Army had put up a good fight but eventually they’d had to withdraw north. We were on the outskirts of the village, clearing landmines from the road—the Germans had laid them as they retreated. We were so intent on not being blown to bloody smithereens that we never noticed the sniper in the woods by the side of the road. Three of us were hit. The other two got themselves out the way, but I couldn’t move and the rest of the lads couldn’t get to me—they had to hightail it to the nearest farmhouse for safety. They thought I was dead, anyway—I’d been hit in the chest and the belly, there was blood everywhere. I must have passed out for a bit. Next thing I knew there was a female vampire—Italian lass—knelt over me, fangs ready.”

 _Jesus_. Even though he knows the outcome, can feel the solid presence of Lewis right here, pressed against him, his heart contracts.

“I thought I was done for. Well, I thought that anyway, from the bullet wounds, but I thought she was going to finish me off. I’d seen her round the village a few times. Her name was Sophia. She looked terrible; it was obvious she was malnourished—no spare packs of blood for vampires in a war zone. I found out later that she’d refused to start feeding from humans even though she was starving; she’d tried to survive on rabbit and fox blood, knowing that it wasn’t enough. Didn’t know any of that at the time, of course.”

He goes quiet for a while, obviously back there, back in Italy.

“Couldn’t believe it when she bit her own arm and forced a trickle of blood into me mouth—turned me. She saved me—the wounds just started healing—amazing! Wouldn’t have lasted another ten minutes otherwise. Hurt like hell, mind. Never known pain like it.” 

James wants to know, has longed to know. He feels honoured that Lewis is telling him. But he hates picturing him like that, so far from home, writhing in agony on that dusty track, terrified and knowing that nothing will ever be the same again. He instinctively tightens his protective embrace around his boss.

“Do you know why she did it? Why she didn’t just feed from you?”

Lewis shrugs. “I never really got to speak to her much—I couldn’t speak Italian and she only had a few words of English, but like I said, I’d seen her round the village a bit. Helped her out with her bicycle once—a puncture. I got the impression that the locals kept their distance from her—female vampire on her own, in a small village in a Catholic country. You can imagine. I think she just appreciated that I’d been friendly.”

And there it is, the only bit of this extraordinary story that James can really make sense of, can relate to: Lewis was saved because he’d been kind to a stranger. 

“Do you know what happened to Sophia?”

“Well, the lads came back to collect me body a couple of hours later and found me sitting up, newly turned, leaning on a female vampire who looked in even worse shape than me. You can imagine the commotion! She came back to the camp with us and they gave her some blood. I was shipped out the next day, but I heard she made a couple of friends at the camp, a couple of the nurses. They gave her blood each week, and she helped out with the landmine clearance. Even in her state of decline, she still had better hearing than most humans, so she listened out for ‘unwelcome visitors’ while the lads got on with the clearance.

“She died in July 1945. Not many of the village turned out for the funeral, but the whole of the camp went. Filled the church, I heard. Guess how old she was.”

“Tell me.”

“She was almost 600! No wonder she looked done in. She was very old for a vampire, even before what she went through in the war.”

James thinks Lewis has finished, and he has, almost.

“Our Lyn’s named after Val’s mam . . . but her middle name is Sophia.”

Lewis stretches and starts to move, and it looks like he’s going to get up. But he stops midway, obviously changing his mind, and instead turns onto his side, facing towards the back of the sofa, curls his legs up a bit, and rests his head against James’ chest. He lets out a deep sigh, clearly finding comfort in his sergeant’s embrace. Well, it works both ways.

James lets his mind drift back over the story of Lewis’ turning, and maybe it’s the feeling of intimacy from their cuddling and the story shared, but before he realises what he’s doing he’s started to ask a question, a deeply personal question.

“Forgive me if, if I shouldn’t ask, but . . . have you ever turned anyone?” 

He feels Lewis pull in a breath. And then as the breath is released:

“No. Wasn’t there, was I?”

It takes James a moment to work out what he means . . . but then: _Shit. Mrs Lewis._

“Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” but Lewis isn’t listening.

“If I’d have been with her. If I could have got to her. I could have . . . I’d still have her with me.” He pushes the side of his face deeper into James’ chest. James strokes his hair, holds him tight: “I know.”

“We always said.” Lewis’ voice is muffled, with his face pressed so hard against James. “We agreed. When she was a bit older, I’d turn her, so we could be together. She didn’t like the idea of me having to be alone, maybe for centuries. Nor did I. Didn’t like the idea of how much turning would hurt her though, so I kept putting it off. Bloody fool.”

“You weren’t a fool. You know that. Just a loving husband who didn’t want to see his wife in pain.”

James is horrified that his question has stirred up so much hurt for Lewis; has reminded him once again of just how much he’s lost. Because when Val Lewis died on that hateful day, not only did Lewis lose his beloved wife, he also lost the human who had held him and warmed him and kept him strong and healthy. James has seen photos of Lewis back when Val was alive; one with his arm round Val, with the kids standing in front of them, eating ice-creams; and one of Lewis and Morse, at some police function. In both pictures he looks ridiculously young and well and happy. The difference in appearance between the married version of Lewis and the Lewis James met at the airport five years ago is shocking.

James is pulled out of his unhappy musings by Lewis patting his hand.

“You’re right. I know that, really. I just . . .” He sighs and pats James’ hand again. “Well. Nothing to be done about it now.”

“I’m sorry I asked you, sir.”

“Nah. Don’t be. It’s a valid question to ask a vampire. To ask me. I’ve said to Lyn and Mark that if they want, when they’re older, I’ll turn them—but I don’t think it’ll happen. I think they’d rather leave things as they are, and I can understand that. They need to get on and live their own lives, like they want to; not worry about me.

“Anyway. Things are a damned sight better these days than they’ve been for years.” He threads his fingers through James’. “I hope you realise that. The future might still look a bit rough in the long-term, but the present . . . well. You know.”

James pulls him in close and says softly,

“What if you had some companionship?”

Lewis’ body tenses. “How d’ya mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

He rubs his chin softly against the top of Lewis’ head. “What would a person need to say to convince you that they wanted you to turn them?”

He thinks that Lewis will pull away—will tell him not to talk rubbish. But he doesn’t. After a pause, he says,

“They’d need to convince me that that was what they really wanted: for themselves. Not for me or for anybody else. I’d need to be sure that it wasn’t out of some misplaced sense of duty or self-sacrifice.” 

James nods his head gently against Lewis’. 

“Of course.”

And it seems that there’s nothing more either of them wants to say about it for now. But it’s something to think about—a possibility, a potential beacon of light that could see them through any future darkness.

Lewis turns over onto his other side, and gets comfortable again. James strokes his back, running his hands in firm circles over the muscles there. It’s something that he’s found is as soothing for himself as it appears to be for Lewis, and it’s one of the things they like best when they’re in treatment. Not that they’ve talked about it of course. No need. 

They do a difficult job, him and Lewis. On a daily basis they’re faced with the worst of how people can treat each other—human and vampire alike. There’s danger and horror and unimaginable sadness at times. And yet, as he half sits, half lies, in the fading light, his now warm, vampire friend—for surely they are friends to each other—draped over him, James feels profoundly blessed. He’s been revisiting the Sherlock Holmes stories and novels recently, and the words that Conan Doyle gave to John Watson as he held Mary Morstan’s hand for the first time, surface in his mind:

“There was peace in our hearts, for all the dark things that surrounded us.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the Christina Rossetti poem _What would I give?_
> 
> Letitia Fairfield, the Master of the Vampire Congress in 1920, was a real person. She was a medical doctor and became Inspector of Medical Services for the Woman's Royal Air Force in Britain during WW1. She was also a lawyer and an ardent campaigner for women's rights. One of her sisters was the writer Rebecca West.


End file.
